


Fallout

by woodsong_1978 (Vae)



Category: Firefly, Torchwood
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Firefly 'verse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-04
Updated: 2009-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:51:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/woodsong_1978
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War's over, and Jack Harkness, Alliance officer, encounters a couple of Browncoats</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unfeathered](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Unfeathered).



Another one. Endless line of poor fucking infantry, and some things never changed. Wars ended, and it wasn't an ending. There was always the aftermath to deal with. The losing side.

Jack dropped his stylus on the desk, reached for the water one of the clerks had brought him earlier, and wondered if there was ever actually a winning side in any war. This one, though, this one definitely had a side that lost worse than the other. The self-styled Independents, in their distinctive brown coats. A rag-tag army gathered from across the galaxy, fighting for ideals and beliefs.

Ideals and beliefs got people killed. Jack had learned that centuries ago.

"Name, rank, number," he intoned, not even looking up as the next man was escorted in.

There was silence, except for the faint buzz coming from the standard issue restraints.

"Name, rank, number," he repeated. And looked.

This one was different. Hell, he knew this face. And the expression on it. From Wanted notifications ever since the neutralization of Shadow, and more importantly, from almost-forgotten lessons at the Time Agency. Men not to mess with, because screwing with their timeline could throw out the whole of history.

"Reynolds, Sergeant, 52nd Overlanders, 47935."

Malcolm Reynolds. Oh, he'd got specific orders for Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds after the debacle in Serenity Valley. Specific orders that... shit, he couldn't do that. He couldn't give those orders. Not because of any personal regard for the man, or even the fact that he'd laughed out loud when he'd heard news of some of Reynolds's exploits. Kind of reminded him of himself, way back when.

He couldn't give those orders because Malcolm Reynolds needed to _survive_.

No matter how close to death the man looked already. Oh, not physically. Weak as he appeared, thin and wasted, cheeks hollow, hands shaking, shadows smudged under his eyes, Jack had no doubt that Reynolds could pull back from that. That was the simple stuff. The threat was in the cold, dead eyes, and the faint abrasion at the base of his neck that told of a chain pulled away in anger.

With one sweep of his stylus, he overruled the instructions appearing on screen. "Free to go."

"Sir?" The officer half-dozing on the chair beside him started to full awareness.

That would teach his superiors to put him on fucking processing for a fifth day running. "Free to _go_ , lieutenant." Jack met the lieutenant's eyes steadily. He'd had a long time to practice staring people down. Some little wet-behind-the-ears upstart wasn't going to cross him now. "Standard stipend, give the man some clothes and for God... for Buddha's sake, get him a bath."

"Ain't I sweet smelling enough for the free world you boys are building?" Reynolds inquired, lips twisting in a bitter mockery of a smile. "Seems to me it's the manner of stench should be fitting right in."

Jack glanced at Reynolds, not daring to let his gaze linger. "There's such a thing as too much honesty, Mr. Reynolds. Learn when to hold your tongue. I don't want to see you back here again."

Even if he did agree. At least the smell of battle and desperation and defeat was an honest stink.

\---

The air didn't smell any sweeter outside the detention facility. Mal tugged at the collar of his shirt, uncomfortable in the restrictive Core-world style clothing, and wondered when he stopped being able to breathe free. Could be it had been some time in the Valley. Some time after surrender had been accepted and he'd near choked on the air thick with the sicklysweet smell of his colleagues dying and decaying.

New clothes. Basic stipend. Fresh start.

Free to starve on the streets of Londinium, as long as he did it nice and safe out of sight. Wouldn't want the fine ladies and gentlemen as didn't even dirty their hands with fighting to be forced to witness the sight of defeated Independents on their streets.

"Sir?"

The voice was familiar, the tone even more so, save for that careful edge to it. A voice that had carried him through dark times, much as he'd carried back, and the word was _wrong_. He shook his head wearily. "No, Zo. Not now. War's over."

"Right, sir." She didn't look right, neither. Some form of skirt wrapped around legs he was used to seeing in practical pants, and above those... whoa.

"If you're wanting to keep your eyes, sir, might be wanting to raise them to my face. 'Cause that'll be one thing that ain't changed, commanding officer or not." 

Now that much was familiar. He managed a weary grin, and followed her suggestion. There was more in her eyes than he was comfortable reading, but if she'd show it, he wouldn't shy from it. "There a bar near here, Zoe? I'm feeling the need to be rid of some of this blood money."

\-- 

They toasted the survivors first. At least, those who'd lived through the Valley. Survivors might be a touch strong a word for them, walking ghosts, more like, but that was the place to start. For one thing, there were less names.

Then, time for respects. Mal couldn't remember if he'd started it, or Zoe, but they'd drunk their way through their patrol and gorramn near the whole company when a fresh jug of rotgut landed on the table and a new voice sounded out a name Mal didn't know.

And another.

And another, recited in a flat stream, rhythm to it like the man had rehearsed the string of them over and again until they etched heavy on his soul, save Mal wasn't sure this man had a soul.

This man had dismissed him from notice that morning like he was _nothing_.

This man was Alliance.

\-- 

A long litany of names, and nowhere near the number of deaths Jack had heavy on his soul. Algy. Rose. Gray. John. Andy. Jasmine. Suzie. Owen. Tosh, his poor, sweet, brave Tosh. Martha and Mickey and Gwen and Rhys and Ianto and everyone who'd ever served Torchwood under his command, every face in his mind, every name in his heart.

"Jack Harkness," he finished heavily, always that one last, and filled his glass from the jug, tossing the shot back and taking the empty seat at the table like a challenge.

Metal scraped against plastic as two chairs pulled back from the table, two soldiers who hadn't accepted orders to stand down stood _up_ , both reaching for guns that no longer rested in holsters no longer in place. Conversation died, leaving the room full of an empty, expectant hush.

Yeah, he'd known the risk he'd taken entering a bar notorious for its policy of tolerance towards Independents. Known it, weighed it, judged it worth taking. After all, what was the worst they could do to him? Kill him?

Jack almost laughed. Didn't stand, just leaned back in his chair, and judged the people watching him. Not just the two across the table, hell, no. He was well aware that they were the focus of attention of the whole bar. The losing side, the Alliance classified them. Independents. Browncoat scum. People who thought for themselves and did for themselves and never accepted their lot in life. People who didn't need a gun to kill him. In short, Jack's sort of people.

He let his chair tilt, balancing on the two back legs, and nodded. Greeting, respect - close as he was going to get to sympathy or apology. "Reynolds." Fingers curled around a phantom pistol butt, and Jack had absolutely no doubt that if Reynolds had had his revolver, he'd be dead already. Time for the next calculated risk.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a gun. A revolver. Not a million times removed from his own favoured firearm, though he'd reluctantly abandoned that in favour of a laser pistol a century or so earlier. This revolver, though, was practically an antique, securely in its holster, leather straps of the belt wrapped around it. Well-worn, soft leather, bitter with the scent of sweat and mud and death.

His other hand held high to demonstrate his lack of a weapon, Jack slid the revolver across the table, sat back, placing both hands on the table in front of him. Flat, fingers spread wide. Nothing to hide. "I believe this is yours," he said quietly.

Reynold glanced down at the gun, eyes narrowing, and then nodded sharply. "Zoe?"

The woman's lips twitched, like she wanted to smile. Lush, full, generous lips, that under other circumstances would have given Jack very definite ideas. Under _current_ circumstances he was getting some more than tentative ideas. "What was that about not being my commanding officer any more, sir?"

"Ain't the time for that, Zoe." Reynolds's eyes remained steady on Jack. "I wanna know he ain't hiding no more of an arsenal about his person. And I'm thinking you ain't exactly averse to knowing that, neither. You, Alliance man. Stand up."

With a grin he didn't even attempt to hide, Jack braced his hands against the table, and stood up, holding his arms out to the side. "Harkness," he told Reynolds. "Captain Jack Harkness, _very_ pleased to meet you both."

"Might wanna withold judgment on that one," Zoe advised, patting him down quickly, and more thoroughly than he'd expected. No hesitation, no squeamishness, and sure, he didn't _have_ to twitch when her hand strayed right there, but that had never stopped him before, and wasn't going to now.

"Usually women buy me dinner before going there." He shot her a trademark grin, only slightly disappointed when her only reaction was to wait until he'd stopped moving, and continue with her search.

"Spoons in this place ain't long enough." Zoe finished at his ankles, urged each foot up in turn to check his boots, then stepped back. "He's clean, sir."

Not quite, but she'd done a fine job of searching. There were a couple of weapons stitched into his coat, plus the old trick he'd learned from the Time Agency. Neither of which would be found in an external search, and Jack was glad of that. Immortal or not, he didn't like the idea of being at the mercy of these two with nothing but his charm and fists to defend himself. Definitely not being at their mercy today, anyway. Or... hell, no. Really not the time to be thinking of that.

Reynolds nodded, waited for her to be a safe distance from Jack, then picked up the gun. Slow, smooth, controlled movements, unwrapping the leather and sliding the revolver clear of its holster, checking as much by touch as by sight that she was the right one.

She was. Jack had made damn sure of that.

"If you're expecting me to believe you just gave me your only weapon, you're either a complete shǎguā, or you're thinking I'm one," Reynolds said evenly. "Since I ain't, and I ain't taking you for one neither, we're gonna move this someplace else. Someplace that means we can leave these nice folk to enjoy their drink in peace, dŏng má?"

He'd forgotten, truly forgotten, the way the people of the Rim planets mixed their speech. Core planets, Alliance forces, tended to stay with complete English or Mandarin phrases. The sprinkling of Mandarin in the English meant that Jack took a split-second too long to interpret and respond.

"Could be you're wrong in that assumption, sir," Zoe said calmly.

"Could be," Reynolds acknowledged, strapping his gunbelt into place, keeping the revolver out and in his hand. "Ain't. Kāi dòng, Alliance man. We got a room, Zoe?"

"Jack," Jack insisted, but moved, following the direction of the revolver towards the door.

\-- 

They had, it turned out, got a room. A private room, which was more than Jack had expected, and he started believing a little more of the legend surrounding Malcolm Reynolds. Getting a private room for two Independents in overcrowded Capital City, after they'd lost the war, while the Alliance was still processing their prisoners... yeah. That was an impressive feat.

He hadn't known this sort of room existed in Capital City. Sure, he'd guessed, every city had slums, no matter when or where they were, but official duties had kept him to the official areas of the city. This, this was real, beyond the veneer of civilization. This was the area that he was vaguely aware would turn into blackout zones within a few years.

The door closed with a faint rattle of latch - mechanical latch, not the electronic ones he'd grown accustomed to - and Reynolds gestured him towards the center of the floor. Hard to get much idea of the contents of the room. Dim light through sacking curtains showed the outlines of a bed, a sani-unit beyond, a threadbare rug on the floor, and very little else. Something that might have been a chair in one corner of the room. He'd have bet his last credit that everything in there was synthetic.

Reynolds glanced around, face impassive, and nodded. "Zoe?"

He'd swear she stood to attention. "Sir?"

"Got some place you can be for a while?" Reynolds's eyes fixed on Jack, steady and cold. "Could be you'd rather not be seeing this."

Jack risked taking his eyes off Reynolds for long enough to see Zoe's lips tighten before she suppressed even that hint of reaction. "Can find some place."

"Then find it," Reynolds ordered, and for the first time since Jack had first met him, a trace of emotion showed in his eyes. Affection tainted with fear. "One hour. If you ain't back here in two, I'm coming for you."

Zoe paused, nodded shortly, and left, latch rattling again as she closed the door behind her.

Jack kept his eyes firmly on Reynolds. No clear idea on why he'd been brought to the room, or what Reynolds intended to do. His fingers flexed briefly at his sides, heart speeding slightly, tension growing the longer Reynolds waited, and always with the revolver focused on Jack. He could have overpowered the Browncoat. Probably. Not without being shot once - after which, Reynolds would discover that Jack hadn't been exactly generous with ammunition.

"Strip."

For a moment, Jack wasn't sure if Reynolds had said what he thought he'd heard. He had to be imagining it, right? Because nothing he'd read off Reynolds so far suggested -

"You deaf as well as stupid, Alliance man? Strip."

Jack lifted his hands to his jacket, slowly slipping buttons undone one at a time. His lips curved in a smile, and he shot a mischievous glance over at Reynolds. "You know, if you wanted some alone time, all you had to do was ask, I'm sure Zoe would have obliged."

The punch came fast enough that Jack had no time to anticipate it, left sprawling on the floor, one hand slamming out to break his fall and absorb some of the impact. Heart racing with the jolting shock of it, beating that shade harder, breath harsh in his throat until he caught it, controlled it, brought himself back sharp enough to lift his head and look up at Reynolds, another notch warier. Slowly and carefully, he touched his jaw, testing the set of his teeth, tasting blood and turning his head to spit it onto the floor. "Nice left hook."

"Thanks," Reynolds said dryly. "Gonna strip now?"

Jack took another look at Reynolds. Assessing him for different purposes. Wide mouth, strong jaw, cold eyes but he'd seen them speak before, to Zoe. Tall, strong, not too wasted from battle. Tight pants that did little to hide his assets. Nice assets. Nice package all round, if it weren't for the whole hating Jack's guts thing. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, I'm gonna strip now. Okay with you if I get up?"

"Long as you ain't planning on trying any fèi huà." Reynolds gestured with the revolver, not stepping back to give Jack any more room.

Getting up gave Jack another chance to assess any potential damage from that punch and the fall. Slight ache in his ribs, blossom of a faint stiffness that would be a bruise on his hip, and a lingering soreness in his wrist added to the ignored pain in his jaw. He shifted his balance carefully, both hands held out to demonstrate their continued emptiness of any possible weapon before shrugging off his jacket, including the two knives stitched into the lining and the garotte hidden in the collar. No more backchat. Just steady silence as he stripped his clothes off. Shoes, shirt, socks, pants, the boxers he only wore because the uniform fabric itched like hell without them, until he stood naked, smile banished, eyes wary. Naked didn't bother him. Reynolds's complete lack of reaction did.

Reynolds nodded slowly. "See, thing is, I ain't so trusting as Zoe, and you don't know how much I'm saying there. She still thinks a decent pat-down means a man's unarmed, but I learned a thing or two, and I don't buy that a man like you's gonna walk into a bar and give me your only weapon."

Shit. Reputation hadn't lied. Jack had to respect that, even if it was working to his disadvantage. Even if... hell, there was a time and a place for all things, and even he would acknowledge that being held at gunpoint by a man determined to discover where he'd hidden that compact laser wasn't the time to get turned on. His body wasn't listening. His body was definitely appreciating the fact that he was naked and at the mercy of a man who wasn't going to underestimate him. Centuries old and some reactions were still instinctive. Risky as hell, and he'd always craved that adrenaline rush, the razor-thin sharp edge of risk that reminded him that he was truly _alive_ , even, maybe especially, when it wasn't appropriate.

And Reynolds had noticed that, too, from the raise of his eyebrow. "Should've figured a xiǎobáiliǎn like you for sly. Both hands on the back of the chair, spread 'em. Bend over for me."

That was the hint. The clue that told Jack that maybe, just maybe, he was about to get more out of this encounter than the loss of the sweetest shaped laser he'd had the privilege to pack for a good long while. Not 'bend over', but 'bend over _for me_ '. Time and place it surely wasn't, damn, he didn't want to want, and he sure as hell wasn't going to admit out loud that he did, either in words or in body language.

He couldn't hide the reaction of his cock, but anything else? Yeah, that he could control.

Keeping his eyes on Reynolds (and that revolver), Jack moved across to the chair, and tried for one last attempt at his usual insouciance. "You know, it's not only women that usually buy me dinner before getting their hands on - right."

The press of the cold metal of the revolver's barrel at the base of his skull stole any last thought of speech. Jack licked dry lips, and shut the hell up, leaning over to grasp the back of the chair, plastic slippery in sweaty fingers, and moved his feet apart.

Not wide enough, according to the sharp kick to the inside of his ankle from a boot heavier and harder than he'd expected. Eyes watering and lips firmly pressed together, Jack tried his best to ignore the way his cock hardened further at the rough treatment, and spread his legs wider, the gun still at the back of his head, earning a grunt of something that might have been approval.

"I want you to talk," Reynolds told him precisely, "I'll ask you a question."

Jack nodded, silently, and lowered his head. Eyes closed, sweat stinging across his shoulders despite the chill in the room's recycled air, he waited, tension gathering through hips and thighs along with the unacknowledged, half-denied arousal. No question asked, so no verbal answer given. Just the dip of his head, and waiting for Reynolds's next move, his own heartbeat loud in his head, breath hissing harsh in his throat.

Unceremonious fingers parted his asscheeks, probing deeper, and Jack bit into his lip, metallic tang of blood bursting over his tongue as his lip split. He'd never been fond of the feeling of something being removed from his ass, unless it was about to be repeatedly reinserted, and when that something happened to be his last weapon, it was even less fun. Muscles spasmed and ached low in his back as the laser was withdrawn, and warming metal pressed harder into his hair.

"Neat little toy." Fragile, too, as Reynolds proved by bouncing it off the wall and stamping down hard on it, metal casing buckling and plastic splitting with a loud and unpleasant cracking sound.

Jack flinched. Replacing that - purely as a weapon, not physically - wasn't going to be easy. At least Reynolds hadn't spent too long examining the technology, or he'd have realized it was a couple of decades ahead of current technological advancement. Still, with the current distractions, he was hardly placing blame. Not really thinking at all when Reynolds's fingers pushed back in, sliding easily into the space left by the laser pistol, his ass still slick with the lube he used for a quick draw.

"Nothing else in there?" Reynolds demanded, voice strained, fingers spreading to stretch him further, bringing a grunt from Jack and the tightening of his grip on the chair.

"No, sir," Jack managed, strain drawing tight along his spine with the effort of not pushing back on those fingers. Knew damn well he shouldn't be wanting that, definitely shouldn't be encouraging it from a man fresh off the battlefields of Hera. A man who'd fought against the uniform currently crumpled in the corner of the room. Wasn't healthy for either of them but... oh, shit, no way was he thinking rationally when those fingers started moving more purposefully inside him. Slow, steady slide in and out, twisting until he yelped, stars bursting inside his tightly closed eyelids when those blunt fingers found his prostate, stroking over it repeatedly, mercilessly.

"What was that, Alliance man?" Reynolds taunted, pressing harder so Jack's knees threatened to give, thighs trembling as he fought against it. "Feeling a mite empty? What would that nice lieutenant say if he saw you now?"

Jack had suspicions that the nice lieutenant would pass out from lack of blood supply to his brain if he saw Jack naked and bent over with another man's fingers in his ass, but he was having considerable shortage of blood supply to his own brain, so the only answer he managed was a wordless grunt and surrender, back arching and hips finally pushing back in a silent plea for more.

The gun disappeared from the back of his head, soft slide of leather and faint snap of metal telling him it was safely back in Reynolds's holster, and the next thing Jack knew was the sharp sting of a swift, open-handed smack to his ass, heat spreading rapidly along with another hike in lust. "You stay where I put you. Dì yù, never would have guessed it, buttoned up all tight in that fancy uniform. Captain Alliance, slut for Independent cock. That's what you're wanting, ain't it? My cock?"

So damn wrong, and that only made Jack want it more. Knowing the risks, knowing he shouldn't, knowing the damage he might do to Reynolds and the course of history. He still _wanted_. "Yeah," he admitted hoarsely, and locked his knees, staying as still as he could manage with Reynolds's fingers still working inside him, that big hand still warm on his ass. "Gonna give it to me?"

Reynolds snorted, a short, dark, derisive sound. "Think you deserve it?"

Oh, hell, he was good. Two-edged question. Did he deserve it, had he earned it? The answer was pretty definitely a negative, either way, but Jack was one hundred twenty per cent certain that his answer wouldn't make one bit of difference to what Reynolds decided to do. Man had been at others' mercy long enough, and the uniform Jack had been wearing was a potent symbol of that. Sure, Jack could have walked away. Reynolds wasn't going to shoot him - and even if he had, it wasn't like it would stick - and he was damn sure that Reynolds couldn't actually overpower and rape him.

Mostly sure. And that mostly was what kept Jack firmly in place, knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on the back of the chair, fingers slipping sweat-slick on plastic. He grinned, on the verge of laughter from exhilaration, and lifted his head, hips pushing back harder into Reynolds's hand. "Got you your gun back," he said, voice breathless and rough, skating the edge of audibility.

Another smack, harder, ache sinking deeper and heavier, drawing tight in the pit of his belly, cock twitching. "Yeah, you did." Reynolds's hand slipped down, between his legs, rough fingers closing around his balls.

Jack froze, licked his lips, swallowed hard, and tried to remember to breathe. "Got to count for something, right?"

Reynolds chuckled, low and dark. "Méi cuò, it counts for something."

Great. Possibly not a good something, from the sound of that. Breathing, right, breathing was good, against the growing tension in his muscles, tightness in his chest. Tension that only increased when Reynolds tugged lightly on Jack's balls, then let go, moved back, around, over his hip to curl around his cock and Jack had to bite hard into his lip to keep from coming right then and there, so close, so fucking close.

"Means I'm not gonna stick that gun of mine up your ass and fire off a few rounds," Reynolds said casually, and stroked his hand once, hard, down Jack's cock to press the heel of his hand against Jack's belly.

Tension slipped to trembling, and Jack wasn't even _trying_ to hide that reaction. Sure, he'd been killed a number of inventive ways, including during sex, and that was never going to top his list of favorite activities, but that one? Yeah, that one would have been new, and he was damn glad to hear Reynolds say he wouldn't do it. Not so glad that he'd thought of it, but...

He wouldn't even think that Reynolds might be lying.

"Thanks," he managed, barely more than a whisper around the potent mix of lust and fear thickening his voice. "I think."

"Might even leave you alive," Reynolds offered, twisted his hand sharply to leave Jack gasping, and started a swift, demanding rhythm, firm and relentless strokes over Jack's cock, pushing hard at the last traces of Jack's control. To stay still, to wait, to simply not come _yet_ , harder every second when Reynolds's thumb randomly slipped over the head of his cock in unpredictable patterns.

Jack dropped his head, closed his eyes, and focused on not passing out. Heat gathering and tightening, heavy in his groin, spreading through his body, prickling sweat along his spine, across his forehead, sticking hair to his face as it fell. So fucking hot, so fucking hard, trying to keep his breath steady, slipping low, shallow and harsh, lips parted and dry and he didn't care any more, didn't care whether Reynolds was going to fuck him or not, didn't care how he looked, naked and bent over, offering his ass up to a man that should have been his enemy, wanton and open and desperate. Really didn't care when that thumb tilted, angled, scraping the edge of a nail against oversensitive skin and spilling him over that edge, copperbright bursting over his tongue as teeth sank into his lip hard enough to split skin afresh, just one more layer of sensation to feed into the whirlwind twisting him into dizzy orgasm, caution temporarily abandoned as he gave himself over to the fantastic purity of sensation, thoughts banished, no doubt, no fear, just _being_.

His knees buckled when the tension finally let go, when Reynold's hands retreated, and he hit the floor, hard enough to bruise, loud echo in the quiet room, muscles loose and heavy with relaxation, finally letting go of the chair to go the whole way, rolling onto his back to sprawl on the floor, fingers red and sore, shoulders aching, his own come cooling on his stomach and wrists where they'd smeared against the chair on his way down, an unstoppable grin stretching his lips around a breathless laugh. A laugh and grin that froze when he blinked Reynolds back into focus.

The man was standing over him, face completely blank of expression, eyes cold and assessing, hand hovering close to his holster again. No sign of arousal, no sign of anything except a coldly calculating mind. Shit. Messed up. Seriously fucked up, judgment slipped, and sure, Jack needed Reynolds to live, but living undamaged was the aim. The man watching him didn't look to meet that requirement. Sure, there was a spark of life in those eyes that hadn't existed before, but it wasn't a good spark. The closest impression he got from it was cold, deadly hatred.

And Jack had just given Reynolds chance to exercise that hatred, and put himself at Reynolds's mercy.

Senses sharpened fast. Jack stayed completely still, barely even blinking, spread out on the floor. The synthetic rug beneath him was rough against his skin, clammy from the sweat of his back, air in the room still and cool against his skin. From the window came the distant sound of voices, faint enough that words couldn't be distinguished. Dust tickled his nose, and his skin itched as come cooled, dried, flaked. "What now?" he murmured, licking his lips and swallowing, just once. One of the rules he'd learned, never ask a question he didn't know the answer to. Not when he was under threat.

He didn't have a fucking clue what the answer to that question was, but from the looks of it, neither did Reynolds. Small mercies.

"Now?" Reynolds asked slowly. Fingers twitched dangerously close to the fastened holster, and Jack tensed. "I'm thinking we're done here."

Done, right. Whatever the hell done meant.

Done apparently meant a sharp rap on the door that cleared the vagueness from Reynolds's eyes and brought his head up sharply. Jack stayed exactly where he was, tense, still, and watching for any opportunity to get out. Clothes optional. Survival - or not having to reveal the whole not staying dead deal - was first priority.

The knock repeated, a sharp staccato rhythm that drained some of the tension from Reynolds's stance. "Zoe?"

"Sir," the clipped voice from the door confirmed. "There's a sweep headed this way. Time to move on."

Reynolds crossed the room swiftly, freeing the latch to let Zoe into the room. Jack managed to roll over, but got no closer to the door before not one, but two pistols were aimed in his direction. He eased back to his knees, hands spread wide to demonstrate their lack of weapons. "Harmless," he suggested, with a smile as close to innocence as he ever managed.

Zoe flicked a look at Reynolds. "Is he?"

"No." Single word, single syllable, had Jack cursing himself inwardly.

Zoe nodded. "Sometime, sir, you're going to have to learn to clean up after yourself. Won't always be here to tidy up the loose ends."

Jack _really_ didn't like the sound of that, and didn't plan to wait around to find out what it meant. Guns or no guns, he could recognize a threat when he heard one. Staying put and hoping for mercy would get him killed. Making a run for it might get him killed. Not a great choice, but a pretty easy one to make. At least he had the chance of getting somewhere hidden before he died. Not a great chance, sure, but a chance.

One more breath, and he launched himself at Zoe's ankles. She'd shoot him, Reynolds would shoot him, but Reynolds might hesitate and Zoe wouldn't. That made his first priority getting Zoe distracted from aiming accurately enough to... _shit_. Breath of air and the sharp retort of a pistol that told him a bullet had still come too damn close to his body. He followed reflex, arching away from it, rolled, and came up to his feet, sprinting for the open door. Another shot, not behind him, but in front, made him flinch for a moment but not stop. Hadn't connected, that was the important thing. Hadn't touched him.

The next one did, lodging securely in his shoulder with a burst of whitehot fire, pain instant and sharp. Another flinch, another rasped breath, another step towards the door, steeling himself on adrenaline to ignore that, just get out, get _somewhere_. Away from the two battle-sharp veterans who... shit... knew too damn much about stopping a man. Two more shots, and pain bloomed harsh and inescapable in both knees, bringing Jack down to the floor in a crumpled heap, breath rough, eyes stinging, fingers locked on the doorframe, still trying to drag himself out of the door, towards the faint sounds of Alliance patrols. "You haven't got time for this," he gritted out. "Just go."

"Sir?" Zoe's voice came from somewhere above him, crisp and close.

A pause, a faint sigh that was barely audible over the sound of Jack's own heartbeat, rising dark and heavy inside his head, blood roaring in his ears, darkness pressing at the edge of his vision. Then: "Go," Reynolds agreed briefly.

When Jack gasped his way back to life to find himself surrounded by Alliance officers with vaguely familiar faces, he didn't have a damn clue if it had been Reynolds or Alleyne who'd killed him. Judging by the blood matting his hair, whichever of them had fired the shot, they'd been damn accurate. And judging by the officers' expressions, the two Independents had their freedom.

**Author's Note:**

> Firefly, Mal Reynolds and Zoe Alleyne are the property of FOX, Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and Universal. Jack Harkness is the property of the BBC. No profit is being made from their use in this fan fiction. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Written for unfeathered for Sweet Charity. Thanks to lvs2read for the beta check. Any remaining errors are entirely my own responsibility for disagreeing with her.


End file.
